1992 Paris

11.1.92 Pompidou Centre

Well, here we are again.  What a city; what a day.  First, basic info: arrived Thursday evening, Friday at Confortec because of my new Confortique contacts.  Yesterday a washout (= work).  Today I'm taking off.  Up early for a walk in the grey coldish (= good) dawn.  Through Les Halles, through Marais, to Place des Vosges. First time in  Place des Vosges – stunning.  Typical French obsession with order and regularity.  Lovely colonnades, very intimate in feel – perhaps because of the low roofs.  To Hugo's house – bare inside, mostly pix.

From Bastille to Louvre (I have a Paris five-day pass).  To Comédie-Française, where I buy a ticket for "Iphigénie" tomorrow at 8.30pm.  I already have a ticket for 6.30pm tonight: "Charlus", based on the man himself.  My French is probably good enough to cope.  Then to Denon wing, a small exhibition of Lully stuff, OK.  Up to Musée d'Art Moderne.  Nice Matisse, rest rather ropey.  To Palais de Tokyo – huge photo exhibition on sculpture.  Quite interesting, if exhausting.

Then to here, Beaubourg.  Which I have not been to for probably 15 years.  Much better than I remember it.  Busy, bustling, lots to see.  But before I walk around, a few important things.  This place (Paris) is so wonderful that I feel I will have to do something really corny: live here for a few months – to write "Doing The Business" (DTB).  It all fits.  DTB is emotionally Racine-based.  I bought Iphigénie today and had the idea of incorporating it and four other Racines = 25 acts in DTB (Iphigénie - the choice about whether to fire someone, Phèdre – the editor and her cub reporter). 

Anyway, it looks plausible living here for, say, three months – allow £3/4000 for it, should be possible.  End of this year might be good timing, not too many tourists etc.  Sounds good to me...It is becoming clear to me that Glanglish II, III etc will follow occasionally.  My main task is DTB etc.  The other thing is Paris is probably the best place to learn Arabic for a trip in 1993.  Also (here, for example) there seems to be facilities, libraries etc.  Provided Is till have my NUJ card, Paris is cheap – especially cinema (I'm tempted by Dingo…)

But to the pix.  First, though: note, there was a real competitive market in plays in seventeenth-century France - people producing spoilers etc (see Racine book).  Exactly like magazines, exactly like business…  Racine lost too… But "A comedy".

Why are the analytic cubist pix nearly monochrome: because colour would destroy the planes = the whole point.  I want to produce black and white pix like these synthetic cubist works.  Purest form of their art.  Brilliant stuff – especially the Picasso – I must read the new biography.  Up now in the cafe. Last time I was here it was really tacky.  Not bad now – full of young trendies – far younger than me… Grey day out there.  Paris still at its best.

I am now in a Japanese restaurant about ten yards from my hotel – for many reasons perhaps: because I'm pretty sure that I ate here some five of six years ago.  Though it seems to have changed menus since then.  Full of japs though...probably a good sign.  

Certainly was.  Absolutely yummy – and very cheap (about £5) for tea, soup, salad and huge rice and chicken "omelette" thing.  Hearing Japanese spoken: makes me want to learn it.  When, though?  And how?  I wonder if there are any bursaries for writers…?

"Charlus" was all that I could have wished.  I understood about half and remembered nearly all of that.  The narrator was good – not quite feeble enough; Charlus was, well, Charlus to a T.  Ultimately quite moving too, the loneliness despite/because of all his power and accomplishments.  Hm.  Intimate theatre, below the main one.
[DTB: "can't get this mag launched until you fire him" – cf.  Iphigenie…]

12.1.92 Musée Picasso

Here again again.  Everything I wanted.  Analytic cubism the peak for me, really – so intelligent.  Practically all of his pix have a woman in it.  As if trying to understand them by re-stating the problem.  Also minotaurs – at the heart of the labyrinth – Daedalus, patron saint of the new… (and Theseus in Phèdre…).  Some thoughts on beauty – towards a Darwinian Aesthetic.  Perhaps beauty is simplicity – compare "elegant" theorems in maths.  Even in apparent complexity – a Bach fugue -  you seek harmony = simplicity, all parts being of the whole.  Also: the power of analogy.  Analogy is about finding a structure pre-existing in the brain => saves brain cells – saves new learning.  Similarly perhaps beauty is about minimisation of brain cells: a smooth "simple" curve is more easily stored than a jagged one => feels nice, because the brain finds it easier to grasp.  Well, it's a start…

Back in the Japanese restaurant – weak, yeah, but saves faffing before the Racine (very Noh almost…?  Nearest equivalent…)  - also I have a strange lingering qualm about this trip – after all, I done little real work – very little today – and I've gained so much otherwise.  After Picasso, to the other side of Paris: La Défense finally.  Emerging from the RER, to be greeted by this huge primitive/modern arch, climb the great tsunami of steps – immediately made me think of Boullée.  Up to the roof – crazy lift.  Dull exhibition up there, crazy too – and very modern.  Almost like a space ship – very flash, very French – compare the World Trade Centre – dull, commercial – and in the UK, nothing equivalent.  The sheer effrontery of the French planning.

To Iphigénie, Comédie-Française.  Round corner for a quick cafe crème before, then unable to find toilets – and no break.   Comédie-Française sumptuous, acoustics not too good (I was on 4me).  Very lush inside.  Acting good: Iphigénie and Achille particularly so.  Even with the lousy acoustics I could understand most of it: am I there?  

NB: DTB – boyfriend is nearly killed in a car crash in Brighton (cf. Hippolyte) – driving because miserable, because neglected.

13.1.92

Strange day – work, first – consuming microcomputer magazines, then out to RBP France to convince them to launch Windows User...hard work, but at least not completely rejected.  Strangely torn today… I felt I was living a Racine play – that flip-flop, that 0/1 of the binary digit, yes/no, the indecision.  How so we decide (compare most important job of boss in DTB: to be decisive – because anything can be justified, any story sold – but not a changing one.)

Then for a long walk around Place des Vosges – which I really like.  Most closed.  Across to the Île Saint-Louis – which looks very touristy without the touristy (paradoxical, moi?).  Saw place – studio – for rent there: £100 a week...nothing… I must come here – I could live here for years at that rate.  Walking, walking – and back to here, which is a place I passed just south of Place des Vosges.  Whereas everywhere else just felt wrong, this place, though grubby, felt right.  Turns out to have Basque specialities...we shall see.

I was overcome by an intense fatigue when talking to the RBP bloke – I really don't care.  Only a sense of duty – and a rather interesting possibility – kept me going.  Vegetable soup no "tres chaud".  One thing:  somebody told me yesterday of a Linguatheque at the Pompidou Centre – practically every language in the lab...could be convenient.  ["Truc" – the word on everyone's lips.]  Soup – simple, good, hot, copious.  Paris, obviously, is a walker's city.  Perfect for the poor.  It is also the quintessential city of exile.  Perfect for me….

Tuna à la basquaise– everything I could have hoped.  Délicieux.  A long, narrow room, bare-ish walls, except for the bullfighting posters – and on the ceiling.  Music – French – in the background.  Only me except for two ladies (young) who seem to be friends of the patron.  Life is good (could this be the half litre of win speaking…?) [Garbure – the soup].  On the wall, weird ball catcher – some Basque game, clearly.  I must go there…  Basque cake to follow – very strange, very nice.  This, with plums inside.  Yummy.  

Interesting effect in the Métro: sitting opposite two women on the other track, I can almost hear what they are saying – à la St Paul's Whispering Gallery...

More destinations:

1991 Paris

1992 Paris

1994 Paris

1994 France

2023 Paris 

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1991 Berlin

30.8.91 Gatwick airport

I was here on Monday; and less than two weeks ago.  Life is so...hectic; interesting.  I can barely keep up with myself.  Work is crazy – editor of PC Magazine, Personal Computer Directory launching, publisher of Windows User, Electrical Retail Trade and (until today) Electronics Weekly.  Freelance stuff for the Daily Telegraph had to be done this week.  The novel barely touched for months…

Well, I sit now in the café of the main museum at Dahlem. Amazingly, outside, in the entrance hall, there is still (still? - the same one?) an exhibition of musics from the ethnomusic collection.  And one of them is Balinese.  So I came here to complete that cycle.  Alas, not symbolic, I hope, the headphones had been removed.

A strange day so far, but not unpleasantly.  Due largely no doubt to its sheer speciousness – there was no real reason why I shouldn't have come on Sunday – except that I wanted to see a little of the new Berlin.  So a little work this afternoon – more problems – but hey.  Then out to Dahlem.  Always so strange going back after all those years.  Too soon and things are spoilt, but leave a decent decade, as the memories begin to fade or simply get slightly mislaid, and the re-visit has a real charm.

So I recognised the museum and some of the pix.  And as for the Balinese and Sumatran musics…  Some new discoveries – the Burgundian stuff, Weyden, Campin, two great Canalettos – a pair of night scenes, one of which I saw in New York, probably on the day the Berlin Wall came down...ah, the connections, how I luv 'em…  But given the limited time, my main advance today was the Central American collection.  

Well, it had to be.  Having found an Afghan restaurant recommended by one of the guide books (Cadogan, which really seem to be taking off – some are quite good – lovely typeface too), Katschikol, Pestalozzi 84, I had to go.  Suitably Afghani cimbalom in the background, very full menu – better than Caravanserai in London by Paddington.  

Long walk here through mainly residential areas [Dooch turns out to be cool, milky, with cucumber and herbs – lovely for this weather.  Wow – vorspeise Torschi very hot – gherkins and fruits in vinegar and chili etc. - yow.]  I find it hard to get a feel for Berlin.  It is undeniably busy, but looking through the inimitably named "Zitty"(City Limits here) I'm not impressed by what's available.  The contrast with somewhere like Paris is painfully clear: there I felt immediately that this was a bustling city I could live in.  Here… [Main course badenjan, bonani, tschalau.  Dessert – falooda, plus Afghan tea – scented, quite strong.  Heavy but pleasant meal.]

31.8.91 Outside the Pergamon Museum

Strange to be back here.  It is all so different – just walking in – and yet the same – the wrecked or decaying buildings, the strange absence of something – liveliness? Museum not yet open.

On the way back last night, I walked along the Ku'damm.  Very like Champs-Élysées.  Interesting the prostitutes out – in regulation gear of body-hugging pants.  Many quite attractive – and young.  But what a life – what prospects.  Odd little Trabis everywhere – along with the huge, squat-brutalist architecture – damning evidence that architecture reflects the soul of a nation.

Sun very pleasant now.  Along to Alexanderplatz.  Amazing – a kind of grey Milton Keynes, now suddenly gone very tacky.  Poor Döblin.  To Moskau restaurant – very quiet, very civilised – fish soup (Baikal) followed by Uzbek plov (whatever plov is).  Opposite, across the eight-lane road, a cinema is showing Lawrence of Arabia… Behind looms the Hotel Berolina.  The air-conditioning whines.  The food – and general ambience of the place, with shapes and objects all slightly foreign – reminds me strongly of Moscow – not surprisingly.  The same is also true of East Berlin generally so far.  Strange to be here again after so many years.  Impressive main course – served in a hollowed-out cabbage, with lamb, peppers, mushrooms, rice, cream – huge and good.  Good value too – about £6.

Back to  Alexanderplatz, where I have to stop to read Döblin...but now how things have changed.  The U-bahn number 2 to below Unter den Linden, which I walk along.  The Oper, rather fine, a good square with crazy Pantheon-like church (hallo, Peter Greenaway).   Unter den Linden busy – I can almost imagine it as the centre.  To the Brandenburg Gate, now looking rather sordid with the Imbiss stands everywhere – the obligatory lumps of "wall" being sold.

S-bahn not open here, so I walk through the Tiergarten to the Neue Nationalgalerie – lovely cool woods – where I sit again now.  I vaguely remember the Neue Nationalgalerie – a huge bright slab – of nothing – typical van der Rohe.  The galleries are below.  It all works pretty well.  Lots of good stuff, but I am particularly struck by the integrity (sic) of the Lovis Corinth.  I must find out more.

1.9.91 Kleist's Memorial, Wannsee

I think I must be getting into necrophilia or something: first Proust's grave, now here.  So morose these krauts...but what a wielder of the German language. 

2.9.91

I'm getting behind, as ever.  Yesterday after Kleist to the Schloss Charlottenberg.  Rather rushed alas – I was meeting someone for business at 1pm.  So along to the Galerie der Romantik – for the Caspar David Friedrich – wunnerful.  Then outside to admire the facade – and enjoying the sun (too much, I fear).

Lunch um die Ecke of our street and Ku'damm.  Not much good – and lousy service.  Then into the former East Berlin on U-5 to Friedrichstrasse.  To the Brandenburger Tor along Unter den Linden for coffee and cakes in the café by the Oper – very nice, waiters with strange accents.  Very civilised.  Then back to the hotel for a shower and a rest.

Afterwards, we went looking for "Istanbul" – a Turkish restaurant, not surprisingly.  Closed for repairs.  Wandered around and found a Greek dive (ha!).  Eat there – with various fun trying to get what we wanted.  Had fun also trying out a list of Greek.  Walking back past the deceptively attractive prostitutes on Ku'damm.

Today, along to the Funkausstellung – not as bad as I expected, but bad enough.  Lunch up in the Funkturm restaurant – very nice.  Lovely view, cool and good food.  Then walk to here – after buying a ticket for the Israel Philharmonic tomorrow – an open air concert.

3.9.91 Waldbühne

Where I sit now, in a huge natural amphitheatre, to the west of the Olympic Stadium.  The sun has just set, casting a slight orange glow to my left; the sky, blissfully, is utterly clear.  The day much the same as yesterday: long, hot and sweaty, lunch up in the tower again – very nice – could get used to it.  Back to the hotel, quick eats, then out to here.  One bit of nonsense: I follow everyone out of the U-bahn, after buying my ticket for the return – and throwing away the old one.  But following everyone, I find buses to take us the rest of the way: will I be done for travelling without a ticket?  No, in fact…  Good few thousand around, eating, drinking, smoking.  We were given small candles as we came in...could be good.

The concert about to begin.  As the light changes, so does the aspect.  I see now the candles already lit being used by people for their supper – especially where they have a ledge for cloth and appurtenances.  Nice.  Pity about the smokers...

As I suspected, this place becomes more magical as night descends.  Sunset turned into a peach blur, the podium gradually stood out, and then the candles were lit.  Hundreds – thousands soon – of points of light, wonderful ancient symbols.  I shall light mine now...

More destinations:

1990 Munich

1994 the Danube: Neuburg, Vienna, Budapest

1999 Weimar, Venice

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1994 Rome

 6.9.94  On the Pendolino

From Piacenza to Roma.  Lovely train – red and sleek like a long stickleback.  In the Rome guidebook (one of the new visual ones from DK – excellently executed), page 87 – there is a patron saint of drivers: Santa Francesca Romana.  Rome.  Good to be back.  Driving through the streets I'd forgotten how beautiful – no, grand – it is.  The churches, the striated golden stone.  And motorini dappertutto.  Fine weather.  To Il Miraggio restaurant – fine spaghetti with a sprinkling of fish.  Bad news: I have seen the Mémoires of Saint-Simon in a second-hand bookshop…  To our room – number 106 – tremendous view of Trevi Fountain – tremendous noise too.

I sit outside San Pietro – refused entry because of my shorts - don't you just love the church's mercy? (Ironically, too, they are letting in others with shorts…)  A walk to the Spanish Steps.  Erroneously, I have to say, since I thought I was heading due west.  The sun moves to the west early here it seems.  Sun very strong – almost Yogyakartan at times – but there is a good breeze.

Down to the Tiber – very French, with trees (unheard of in Italy) along its banks.  Pass a square with bookstalls (but no prices).  So to here, driving up past the restaurant where I remember distinctly (why, I know not) eating Fegato alla Veneziana.  It's amusing (ish) watching everyone with shorts stride purposefully up to the cerberi, only to be refused (mostly).  To the Villa Sciarra (Trastevere after the Gianicolo (fine view).  Melancholy beauty of the ochre house.  Lots of kids, lovely evening.  Cats everywhere – Egyptian cats…

Now in Piazza della Santa Maria in Trastevere – a "characteristic quarter…" waiting for our Negroni.  Which turns out to be about four times stronger than any Negroni I've ever drunk.  Return to the hotel smashed.  Eat pizza (50 metres from the hotel), then gawp at the fountain.

Bella….

7.9.94 Hotel Fontana

The view from the third floor breakfast room (light with black grand piano) stunning down to the fountain (the coins visible).  The sun catching the papal stemma.  Last night very strange: smashed out of my head (I've never had such a strange single drink in my life), there were various loud noise – the police, cleaning lorries, who knows what.  But bed hard and comfortable.

The Pantheon - much bigger that I remember – really such a palpable demonstration of Roman power and ingenuity. M.AGRIPPA.L.F.COS.TERTIUM.FECIT in huge letters.  Behind me the restaurant/café where Mr Greenaway made The Belly.  On the way the strange wall of colours from the Temple of Adriano – now part of the Stock Exchange.  Motorini – lots of superb romane on them too, charging around.  Bikes less common. Inside the Pantheon – stupendo – such power and lightness – and that massive hole punched heavenwards.  The porch reminds me of Dendera – and perhaps has a similar function in a way.  

Sant'Ignazio – fine, powerful church, and even finer building outside – rare movement in the Piazza.  Wonderful ceiling in the church – extreme perspective.  Chiesa del Gesù – little to see because of restauri – but OTT.  Church of St. Louis of the French – three marvellous Caravaggios – especially the Calling of St. Matthew – those fingers: pointing à moi? - and à toi?  To the Piazza Navona – surely one of the most beautiful and dramatic of all – the church of Sant'Agnese in Agone, pure baroque, pure Borromini – I must learn more of him.  The manhole covers here have SPQR.

By Marcus Aurelius column, at the end of Via Tritone/Largo Chigi a wonderful pedestrian subway that is a bookshop. To Tazza d'Oro – wunnerful – near the Pantheon, too – my centre of Rome, my omphalos.  Bus ride (hot and crowded, Lire 1,200) to Stazione Termini, then to Santa Maria Maggiore.  Big, very big – I was able to see thanks to my long trousers over my short ones, carried all day.  Fine march of columns.  

Now at Da Giggetto – near the sinagoga, and the Portico of Octavia (by taxi – about 7,000 Lire for three people – very reasonable, and the taxisti always polite with their Roman drawl – one, yesterday, reading "Greek philosophy"…).  We sit near four free-standing columns from who knows when, and the remains of a portico.  The synagogue heavily guarded…  On the way here, the Vittorio Emanuele monument, a hideous pink…

Typical sounds – bad rock from a window high above us, a ball being bounced by bimbi, motorini (many), car alarm going off.  We try: artichokes a la juive, baccala' spinati (cod, fried), and – da-da – suppli al telefono (is there a wire?).  And then we'll see…  The Romans with their eternal telefonini (I went into SIP today to ask about modems and telefonini – they knew nothing even though they had some ads in their window.)  Opposite us, the old women out on their chairs in the street…

8.9.94

Basilica of Constantine – a bit impressive. Lovely in the early morning, cool shade, the deep green – especially the pines – which we can smell sometimes.  Truly romantic mixture of churches, trees and awesome ruins.  The fused bronze coins in the marble floor…  To the Capitoline Museum.  The Roman statues remind me of Musée Rodin – except that here there's a crowd.  Fine views of Campidoglio and Sindaco's place.

For no very good reason, down to E.U.R. on the metro – full, smelling like Jakarta.  On Linea B, a mad accordionist – earning around 10,000 Lire for five minutes…  Metro dull – functional, no ads.  Very sparse coverage of the city.  Just not part of Italian culture (even in Milan, very half-hearted).  cf. London and Paris – almost defines the city.

To the Colosseo Quadrato, the strange Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana – pure arches in the famous building (also called Palazzo della Civiltà del Lavoro, closed off), elsewhere columns reduced to rods.  The metro long and dull back.  The image better in films in this, cross between La Défense and Crystal Palace.

The wind is rising: a storm is on its way…

9.9.94

Café Greco – rather impressive, like a gallery – wonderful green conservatory before us.  Elsewhere plush scarlet velvet.  Some of the pix really very good.  The waiters in smart black tie and tails.  Marble table tops.  Fine.  Unlike the weather, which is turning.  To Piazza del Popolo – the double churches, but not as I remember them from winter.  

Motorini di Roma – along with the fountains, and pines, and ruins – Respighi – Rome is mopeds – the motors of the city – for a population too lazy to move – "Jump on me/Leap on me, O desire to work…".  Motto of the city – mopeds – they jump on their mopeds instead – fountains of youth, of history, La Dolce Vita.  Carbon monoxide or Cinquecento – renaissance/Fiat.  So be it: Roman Holidays...

More destinations:

1987 Italy

1993 Urbino

1994 Trieste, Ljubljana 

1995 Siena, Bagno Vignoni, Pienza

1996 Torino

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1991 Paris

29.6.91 Pyramid, Musée du Louvre

Well, I finally made it here.  Humbling, totally humbling.  The French really do have the arts sorted out.  London is an embarrassment in comparison.  This entrance hall is inspired.  So light, so logical.  A pyramid of sky and clouds.  Almost a refutation of an Egyptian pyramid – which heavy and dark: this is nothing but light.  And we are inside: it is pure volume.  John would not like it.  Nor the display of Egyptian antiquities amidst all the gilt Rococo splendour.  In fact, generally, the Louvre itself has too strong a personality, whereas the pyramid is suitably neutral.  Even the design of the Louvre is too French – long, long galleries.  Light, shining marble here.  Even with the increasing crowds, there's a feeling of space and air – they tend to stay around the outside.  A brilliant device for prams/wheelchairs: a cylinder rising and falling – an open lift.

Another gob-smacking experience: Jeu de Paume.  Transfigured.  Satie tinkles in the background; the walls a fierce white, the floors a lovely warm, bleached wood parquetry.  On the walls explosions of energy and colour: Jean Dubuffet at the west end, top floor, north wall, 36 pix – a riot of gore, jagged edges, slashes.  Mon dieu, paris est fait pour moi. Je commence à penser en français tout le temps... Je me sens presque français...

Thereafter, a long(-ish) walk to the Grand Palais, and the Seurat exhibition.  Disappointing – in that most of the "big" pix weren't there.  But once again, Seurat's mastery as a draughtsman is very clear – right from the first academic studies.  Lunch there, cheap, unspecial.  I walk to Musée Rodin in another first.  Not as I imagine: more like the Belvedere in Vienna than the dark town house I expected.  But very impressive.  You can see how this terrible old git loved the human form.  Roomful and roomful of it.  And anybody who can produce hands – especially "Le Secret" – as he can, has got to be good.  Lovely studies for the Balzac.  I sit in the garden, the sun beating down.  At the entrance to the Musée was a beautiful young woman – a model – being photographed.  

To the Musée d'Orsay.  Once again, the immediate impact is one of shame: why can't we rise to challenges like this?  Imagine Battersea Power Station turned into a huge gallery…  This place is so cool – in both senses.  Such a brilliant conceit to have a museum inside the railway hall.  Ah well, voyons.

The ground floor is a rather endearing hodge-podge of nineteenth-century stuff.  The first floor is rather tiresome second team, and at the top, under the natural light, the Impressionists.  [One thing on the ground floor: a model of the streets around Opéra Garnier – with glass over it which you could walk on.  Even though others did – and I did – I felt strangely unsafe as if tip-toeing across frozen ice.] Rather nice wicker-work chairs for viewing the pix – strangely civilised.  Typically French: by the toilets, above the café, there is a computerised system – a touch keyboard, million-pixel screen with (all/most of) the works…

By the RER to Gare d'Austerlitz.  Through the Jardin des Plantes – very French, very formal.  Glorious sunshine.  To the greenhouse – that magic smell, hotter than outside, damper.  Then to the mosque, where I sit now in a polygonal central courtyard, trees providing shade.  I have just acquired a steaming hot mint tea – sweet, needless to say.  But nice.  What can I say about this place – Paris – except that I must live here…

Well, what larks: 2.45am, Boulevard St Michel, just by the bridge, tobacco smoke wafting over me, but strangely I don't care.  It seems right for Paris, the land of the eternal Gauloise.  Anyway, to recap first.  After the Musée d'O (comme on dit), by RER to [café crème here is 40 Francs – is this a record…?  But what did I expect…?] Place de la Bastille, to gawp at the new opera.  'Orrible, no sensitivity at all – and already graffiti on its stone facing.  Then by Métro to Les Halles, where after long wanderings, a descend into the depths to FNAC.  Where, after more wanderings, I find [moon gibbous tonight – this place is La Périgourdine – live music, bluesy guitar, voice and piano stuff] I find one Racine play (Andromaque) – which has a certain resonance as I remember – the Gainsbourg pour Gainsbourg plus some Yves Montand with, ludicrously enough, "La Bicyclette", which I heard on France Inter, and was gob-smacked thereby.  Back to the hotel, utterly knackered.

Where I meet the others from work, and feel, partly out of duty, but also, je l'admets, a desire to be with a group on a Saturday night, the archetypal time of being out, of "socialising".  We discuss ad infinitum what to do, but by some miracle find a good restaurant – part of the Flo chain, directly opposite the Gare du Nord, part of the Hôtel du Nord.  We share a Fruits du Mer – well, as it happens, I end up with 20 (sic) oysters – I hope they were OK – then have capitaine – a type of white fish.  Bright, smoky, bustling, very French.

Yet more discussions.  Unable to find a taxi, some of us begin walking to the Seine, others hang about at the hotel. I lead the walkers.  Time around 1am, Paris bustling.  We find ourselves in the Rue Saint-Denis – with the ladies of the night, some quite young and attractive, many black, some none of these – sad, even – especially – on a beautiful night like this, around 19°C.  One thing in Paris is the blatant porn everywhere – even in ads for yoghurt, I mean… ["Take 5" being played – a versatile band with sax and drums too now…]

I write now (at around 4.30am) with barely any light, sitting opposite the east end of Notre-Dame – which looks like some huge monster or a complex life-support system.  Dawn is definitely coming, with the north-east sky lightening.  Below me, two people sit on the quai; two tiny red fireflies in their hands…. The mood has definitely changed from night to morning, that most magical moment of the diurnal round, that invisible pivot.  Worth waiting up for.  Below me, too, the water like glass, the bridges reflected to perfection.  The first dog starts barking with a racking smoker's cough.

30.6.91

I decide two hours' sleep are better than none, waking at 8.30am.  Not feeling too bad – at Gambetta station: after Père Lachaise Cemetery.  Must be great in winter with mists and everything.  It looked very Greek to me.  Found Proust's tomb, very simple black polished stone.  Today is going to be rather unsatisfactory, I fear, with various deadlines – getting out of room, and to airport etc.

To Jeu de Paume again, for a pleasant lunch of taramasalata, then round the show after reading the intro.  I am just so gobsmacked by all this.  The more I look and learn about this geezer, the more I'm impressed.  Gave up business at 41 to be an artist.  Remained outside the establishment.  What works.  They look so energetic, so full of life – like coiled springs of DNA.  And yet there is a unity of form, and even a humanity amidst this matter.  Really, it is unique in 20th century art.

Upstairs, with the late works – which are suitably Beethovenian in their paring down, in their "spirituality".  Even more so in the very last room of all – on a black ground, like space, the universe, these last deep calligrammes, inspired doodles of noumena (yeah, well...)

More destinations:

1992 Paris

1993 Paris

1994 Paris

1994 France

1995 Paris

2023 Paris 

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1992 Northern England, Scotland, Orkney

20.9.92 Ampleforth

The White Horse – typical British pub with three or four rooms upstairs.  The bar full tonight, stinking of smoke.  Just eaten in the Fauconberg Arms, Coxwold – in a sense where I had meant to stay, but through my misreading of a poorly-written guide – "Drives around York" – reduced to 50p – I thought Sterne had lived here, rather than at Coxwold.

But we saw Shandy Hall – nothing much to write home about.  Nice church with octagonal tower – a mini Ely.  Meal good, filling, the pub slightly artificial.  Though, it has to be said, rather neater than ours.  The old clash: authenticity versus artefact.

Today we drove up from Leicester, to Leeds, hoping to revisit the rather nice Art Gallery there.  Hopelessly wrong-footed in Leeds – there seems no centre, no real direction.  Eventually park – and find the gallery closed.  Leeds utterly dead – utterly depressing.  How do people live here?  Ate in a typical greasy spoon – high ceilings, cardboard white sarnies.  Then on to outside York, Beningbrough Hall (National Trust).  Simple but attractive country house, rolling fields, avenue leading up.  Full of fine portraits, mostly from the National Portrait Gallery.  Exhibitions on the second floor, then down tiny (servants?) spiral staircase, out and to cream tea where I (non-Jainistly) kill three wasps in various unkind ways.

Then driving north to visit some of the villages to find a hotel.  Glorious weather – very autumnal, strong sun, leaves turning golden.  Strange sensation: looking for a turning to Coxwold, found it on the left, but expecting it on the right – I had taken a parallel road which had folded back – hence the reverse.

From Coxwold to Byland Abbey – which I remember well.  Pass hotel, on to Ampleforth – looking for Shandy Hall – wrongly.  Then finally to Helmsley – pretty, but too pretty – rather touristy.  So we decide to retrace our steps, searching for some B&B.  We found one – and a snooty woman who said she wasn't "taking in".  Another – no response.  To the White Horse – a little basic, but seems suitable – and cheap: £15 each.  Money matters now – especially if, as I dream, we go to Orkney…

21.9.92 Bamburgh

Strange to be here again, the rain falling down outside on the B&B window. Saw the castle this time, its gewgaws – mostly in dodgy taste, but the setting excuses all.  So unexpected from the road, driving down from the A1.  A walk on the magnificent beach – such fine, clean sand, to the grey blue sea.  Then the statutory cream tea (ginger cake, actually) – well, tourism is about various consumption -  then through the Trinity-like hall and the keep.  Nothing special, but the hall in particular was very visibly articulated as space. Down to the village, asking about rooms – this cost £18 each, including en suite bathroom.  Nicely appointed.

We left Ampleforth early and cut across to the A1 through Thirsk – a pleasant, natural-looking town, reminded me of Keswick greatly.  Up soon to Durham – superb in the distance.  Parked under the cathedral.  A statutory coffee break in a typical Brit coffee shop – rather spartan.  To the cathedral, where we see that there are B&Bs in the castle.  Also a special service in the cathedral – the bishop's, as we find.  To the Cellars (?), for an excellent meal: cauliflower and cardamom soup (tasted of Persia…), and prawns and curry (not so brill).  Lovely atmosphere – and the newspapers to read.

Then up the A1, through a blissfully invisible Newcastle, up to here.  I realise that the best thing about going somewhere (or one of them) is going back: that strange double focus, the past and the present (for some reason Jaisalmer comes into my mind).  Tomorrow, Edinburgh and beyond…

22.9.92  Pitlochry

Edinburgh and beyond, indeed.  We left Bamburgh in thick fog – having got up far too early for brekkers.  One problem with B&B – generally breakfast is late – 8.30am.  But yesterday's accommodation was very good – as was the breakfast, a real English breakfast, perhaps as a last gesture before Scotland, only a few miles away.
So across country to the A697, leaving behind an invisible Bamburgh.  Roads flooded in places.  But we got through, though progress was slower than I hoped.  Amazing how dour Scotland is compared to England, almost instantly, this Calvinism in stone.

In Edinburgh: I'd not realised before the paucity of long-term parking.  We stopped behind Princes Street – but only for an hour – despite having put more money in.  then to Fruitmarket Gallery, one of my favourites.  Good food, but nearly deserted.  Excellent exhibition of a woman called Laurence.  Then to National Gallery.  We are very taken with Poussin's "Seven sacraments" and, rather strangely, "The death of Patroclus".  Then, of all places, to the Castle (by taxi!).  Hi St. Columba's....  Not much to see at the Castle, except a Tower of London-like jewel room and fine view.  Down into innumerable clothes shops.  Walk back to the car in the shopping centre by John  Lewis.

Then after petrol and the rather wonderful Forth bridge,along the M90/A9 to here.  Good road, lovely views now.  As the rain and cloud cleared, stunning scenes.  Pitlochry surprisingly busy, many B&Bs full – hence our coming here to a one-star hotel.  Food in the Windmill pub – frozen but edible.  Bought bottle of mead (ha! - Aldeburgh), which I'm drinking now.

23.9.92 Inverness

In a repository – all the chairs and sofas facing forwards like some ghostly theatre.  And the show? - the saddest kind of bric-a-brac – garden gnomes, cheap porcelain, cut glass.  At the back, boxes piled high, beds, fridges.  At the front, TVs, hifi…

Now on Thurso beach – and one of the most beautiful vistas I have ever seen.   Two islands of Orkney in the distance, so clear you feel you could reach out and touch them.  The cliffs like the rocks above Hatshepsut's temple – flaky and velvety.  But spread before it all the sea – black, ruddy – and there is only one word for it: wine-red.  Over in Scrabster our ferry boat of tomorrow (yeeha) is about to depart.  Scrabster rather rough, not pretty.  Thurso – so far as we have seen, a lively, bustling little town ("Thor's River" – Thors-a) Brilliant B&B - £17 each, but en-suite, everything, charming old lady.

To the top of Britain again: that coming back… The smell of seaweed, stacks of it on the beach.  Huge blue sky overhead (Grecian). The sun low in the sky (5.50pm), casting huge cracked shadows across the sands.  After dinner – in a typically atmospheric restaurant - £26.  More mead.

This morning out along the A9 – a good read, and one that I have decided is surely among the most beautiful in Britain.  Typical lakeland scenery: shimmering browns and purples on the hills, the dark masses of distant peaks, cloud fraying on hilltops.  To Inverness, where we book the ferry.  A pleasant town, with helpful people.  Lunch in a nothing place.  Then more A9 – even better over the bridge along the coast.  Very like Western Ireland, Man…

We cut inland along a single track road.  Very like the road to Hardknott Pass – but 40 miles long.  Glorious, especially the first half.  Then along the northern coast – Orkney plainly visible, as is the Dounreay nuclear power station (complete with airstrip).  I love these extremities of lands, the sense of boundless water for hundreds of miles.  So to Thurso, which, except for distinct lack of restaurants, is glorious.

24.9.92 On the ferry to Orkney

Yo! On the deck, with Hoy facing us, the car loaded below.  How I love these ferries.  A bright day, though clouds over most of the sky – some promise of better weather.

Huge breakfast at Mrs Chadwick's this morning.  Her house obsessively filled with objects – every surface covered with knick-knacks.  But a beautiful bathroom.  Round the town after breakfast – still pretty dead, but came across nice temporary gallery showing Finnish photos – suitably dark and brooding.  Apparently the local arts festival opened here last night – could have fooled me… 

Thence to Scrabster.  £81 for three-day special – RORO ferry, one hour before leaving, St. Ola (the "island" was the headland to the east: the real Orkney is further back).  Wind bracing but not freezing – sea very calm.  Inside for food in Hoy View Grill.

St Ola – 3039 tonnes, 500 passengers. The first view of Hoy's south coast sheer ruddy cliffs, split by deep fissures (steel-grey sea).  A valley down to the sea (on Hoy), a few dots of habitation.  The Old Man of Hoy – like some petrified tree stump.  Row of statues along the top – like one of Michelangelo's unfinished sculptures with figures emerging.  The striated wall of red and green.  Hoy looks much ruggeder than Orkney.  Few birds here.  From here looks like a rabbit, Aztec statue – constantly changing.  A chess piece.  No caves so far – too hard the rock?  No – one cave as we turn towards Stromness.  

The bay was Rackwick, where Peter Maxwell Davies lives.  Rounds towards Graemsay – the north coast of Hoy more beneficent, with rounded fells.  Low island with sheep and cows.  Curious effect of water here – like the back of huge whales – no waves, but scarred with marks.

St Magnus cathedral – stunning, beautiful church – thick pink pillars – really feel hemmed in by them – even though small, feels huge.  Simple windows at the end (seven pillars).  In the aisles, at the springers, two grotesque heads – tens of them.  To the coffee shop Trenabies in Albert Street, past the Customs House (nineteenth century).

25.9.92  Orphir

Orphir – Earl's Bu and the round church – both mentioned in Orkneyinga Saga.  Bu – just foundations but for the round church there is a segment, and hundreds of gravestones – fine view of Scapa Flow.  Two tombstones of women – Freeth, born in Wimbledon.  Brilliant sunshine, blue sky to the circumscribing horizon.  Mackerel clouds above us.  

The Ring of Brodgar.  Passed the Stones of Stenness, the isolated fingers, then these 40 or so left of 60.  Stunning location between the waters with graceful swans.  One stone struck by lightning 9/6/80 – heated up and shattered.  Strange clouds to the south – very dark clouds with a bank of very white ones caught by the sun.  The only people here – us.  Huge mackerel sky flowing over us.

Maes Howe – when Ragnvald was away on a crusade, rivals went for Orkney.  One was Harald, son of the Earl of Atholl – caught in a storm, he took shelter in Maes Howe.  Two men went mad there… A low crawl inside – reminds me of the pyramids.  What is impressive about the runes is not just the quantity but the quality: incised very firmly – and unweathered, unlike most.  Showed round by guide with her young (<2) son.  Repeating by rote, reading runes.  Amazing from 5000 BC – around same time as pyramids, which are rather more impressive.  But the density of monuments here.

The Broch of Gurness along a potholed unmetalled road.  Village with lovely view across to islands.  Strange orange square of stones on the beach.  Lovely smell of seaweed.  In the distance, on the hill, great wind turbines – strange contrast with the broch.

To lunch at The Northdyke – stunning position with views over Skara Brae, the out to Hoy.  Brilliant sunshine.  We are alone here too – the owner seemed surprised to see us – food?!?  Strangely there is bouzouki music in the background (with repeating grooves).  Have ordered the home-made soup, Orkney salmon, and "Stone Age Ploughman": bere bannocks (prehistoric barley loaves) and three local cheeses plus chutney.  Mulled wine and o.j.  Five tables, with a view through the glass.  Harry Carter – the proprietor – not Scots, and looking to sell.  Also there are watercolours by him.

Now New Age sub-Laurie Anderson stuff – all synths and subdominants – very trivial but very appropriate for this chilly, empty crazy restaurant – complete with "Part of Old Boat", stained glass mini-windows.  Overall, an incredible melancholy hung there.
On the beach by Skara Brae, looking out to 3000 miles of Atlantic.  I remember Ireland.  Restaurant reminded me of one at the end of Ireland.

Skara Brae almost too good – looks too well preserved.  The lady custodian clearing out the rooms – "spring cleaning".  Packed out in July and August; for us, no one.  Beautiful turf, the surf's thunder ("surf and turf" with a new meaning).  The cry of a gull.

Highland Park Distillery outside Kirkwall.  Every half hour, free tour.  To the Italian Chapel – two Nissen huts end to end. 1944.  1960, Domenico Chiocchetti returned to restore it.  Station on island Lamb Holm, painted walls.  The sun enters from the west end, long image on the carpet.  Very still, silent.  Real trompe l'oeil at the back, the west end. 

"Otters crossing for next 600 yards" – sign outside Kirkwall.  
Dinner – not in Albert Hotel, whose bar was awful – but in Kirkwall Hotel by the harbour.  Overbright bar restaurant, but simple, good food.

26.9.92 The Gloup

Out east, stunning sun, past the airport – a twin-engine prop coming in to land.  Badly signposted but so little traffic you just stop and look at the map.  To The Gloup - a huge ravine – collapsed cave with massive arch at the end by the sea.  Strange "glooping" sound of waves in confined area.  Down to the cliff's edge – the cave is long – 50 feet – flat slabs of granite rather than a beach here.  Beautiful. Birdlife sanctuary here – called Mull Head Nature reserve.  Best cliff scenery so far.

Brilliant morning.  The Churchill Barriers the best place to see Scapa Flow, and Hoy in the distance.  The sunken ships – glorious and eerie – rusted to purple-brown, one especially, its metal mast high above the water.  Melancholy.  The thought of 70 plus German ships in the Flow – history sunken and hidden.  East coast best.

Tomb of the Eagles. "Personally, I think he's a lazy-bones" – Mrs Simison ("syme-son") – of her 4000 year-old male skull – perfect teeth.  Whereas of the two females – one had worn-down teeth, probably from chewing barley to ferment it.  Also the other had a groove in the skull and overdeveloped neck muscles from carrying straps with weights.  Eagle claws – the eagle clan? (there are other burials with dog's bones, others with deer).  Seal's head later – perhaps the seal clan took over?  Her husband discovered the tomb putting in poles.  Now he shows how they heated food with stones – two hours plus two hours plus two hours (for the stones, water, cooking).  Lent wellies for a two mile trek through the fields.  Then out to the mound by the sea, crawling in on hands and knees – special pads or trolley. Stunning location with shattered rocks in front.  

Back along the coast, looking for seals, but they are pupping on the outer islands.  This is the end of the end of Orkney, the end of our three days.  

To the Kirkwall Museum, good information on the island.  Bere – pronounced "bear" – a rare and ancient barley – and there is beer made from it.  To the cathedral.  A memorial to the 833 men who died on HMS Royal Oak, sunk on 14/10/39.  St Ragnvald on the left-hand side, at the back of the choir.  To the Bishop's and Earl's palace – atmospheric ruins and good audiovisual with its history.  The smell of coal smoke everywhere.

In the Pier Art Gallery, Stromness – nice light space in the main street.  Leads out back to flagged pier and sandy harbour.  Very apt collections – Hepworth, marine and Celtic – albeit mostly Cornish not Gaelic/Norse.  Stromness even more of a one-street town, but harbour is more varied and lively.  (Gloup = gloop = gjulfr, Norse for "chasm" – found in "Orkney Wordbook" from the excellent bookshop here.)  To the "Khyber Pass" – a narrow passage... Good fish and scampi in The Cafe by the gallery and harbour.  

Waiting in the car for the ferry to arrive, Sweelinck, Byrd and Bull on Radio 3, the light fading, Hoy darkening, the lighthouse more visible.  Birds everywhere (see exhibition at Pier Art Gallery).  For example, rooks and crows, and now in the evening clouds of birds in fluid flocks wheeling, fragmenting and reforming into new shifting forms.  About seven cars, seven people on the ferry – almost just for us. Smooth crossing again.  To Mrs Chadwick and warmth. 

29.9.92 Port Sunlight 

Out of sync again.  Yesterday a glorious peaceful day.  First a little shopping in Keswick, then out past Bassenthwaite, across to Crummock Water – perfect Lake District weather, the hills shimmering in browns and purples, the air slightly hazy.  Then a walk from Buttermere village through the woods to the shore.  Then back to Buttermere.  To Seatoller House; we have the outhouse.  Then along to Seathwaite for a gentle walk to Sour Milk Gill.  Perfect (hot) weather.  Back to Seatoller House for wine and the usual communal dinner – a typical bunch of Lake District-loving Brits, mostly fairly old – older than us, anyway.  Port and then so to bed…

Stopping off in Port Sunlight – that crazy, mock Tudor housing estate – now eating in the Lady Lever Art Gallery. Although few great works, lots of beautiful ones.  Good for the soul and all that.  Nice tea room downstairs (and that's what matters, eh…?)

More destinations:

1988 Northern England, Glasgow, Isle of Skye

1990 Huddersfield

2020 Isle of Skye, Outer Hebrides

Moody's Black Notebook Travels  

2022 Stavanger

Over the North Sea 14.10.22

The good news: I'm flying to Norway.  The bad news: judging by the safety leaflet, it might be in the B737 MAX – the one that is so unstable if fell out of the sky twice. [Actually, Flightradar24 tells me later that it was the older, safer B737-800.]

On the way to Stavanger.  Why?  It seems very small – not even Norway's second city – shops seem to close almost as soon as they open, and the weather forecast for the next four days is rain, rain, heavy rain, rain, thunderstorms, and then showers when we leave.  But in all those respects, it's interesting.

Truth to tell, I was going to fly to Georgia – I've not been for three years thanks to Covid.  But as I was just about to book hotels and buy flights, that nice Mr Putin began his "partial" mobilisation, and tens of thousands of young Russians fled the country – strangely unwilling to get killed to salve Putin's pride.  In particular, flights to Tbilisi went up from $300 to $600, and hotels were sold out as Russians piled in.  So Georgia not the happiest of places – and probably a little too close to Russia in the circumstances [turbulence…].  Admittedly, Norway also has a border with Russia, but a long way from Stavanger.  Also, I don't think Putin would attack NATO country.  Little, helpless Georgia (population three million, two great chunks already missing thanks to Russia) on the other hand…

So, Stavanger is a kind of anti-Georgia.  Very expensive, very clean, very orderly.  Interesting for those reasons, although not much else to do.  It would have been nice to climb to the Preikestolen – the main image I have of Stavanger – but the torrential rain that is threatened is not really ideal for this.  Even fjord cruises are likely to be compromised somewhat.  But hej – at least we have the Oil Museum… In fact, since everything else in terms of museums and art galleries seems closed on Monday, the Oil Museum may be our only hope of getting out of the rain…

Flying Norwegian for the first time – I've often seen their planes.  Efficient Web site, expensive (around 500 euros for two), pity about the Boeings those chose [they do have some B737 MAX, and are buying more, it seems…].  Turns out that UK school half-term is upon us: result – Gatwick South Terminal awash with young families.  Not a problem, but made everything feel rather crowded, which I had not expected.  

Sitting in Fisketorget – pretty expensive, but then everything is here.  Fab view of the harbour, a big powered catamaran berthed nearby – seems the only one offering tours of the fjords.  

An easy trip from the airport on the bus to hour hotel, Darby's Inn, greeted by Mr Darby, I think.  A fine Victorian-era building.  Out into the rain, through the backstreets with their characteristic white houses, all similar, but all different.  The electric cars swish by, the only sound the wheels cutting through the rainy road.  The house number have a very pleasing typeface.

Down to the harbour, where a huge tug (?) looms.  Around the harbour, along to the old town.  Everything so far has been very restrained – reminds me of the Outer Hebrides, Cornwall, Iceland.  The gently sloping lanes remind me of the similar but completely different hill streets of Tbilisi.  The old part of the town an explosion of colour after the uniform white.  Rather gaudy and excessive – looks like something created with a digital painting program.  A bit more lively.  Reminds me again of Tbilisi, but also of Bucharest.  We take coffee in the Bacchus café – decent coffee, tea and apple cake.  This reminds me of a restaurant I visited in Copenhagen – relaxed, nice atmosphere.  Then through the streets full of female navy ratings (Stavanger is a NATO centre – our hotel has people from it staying) out on the town.  Then to here, lucky to find a table, especially by the window overlooking the harbour and sea.

Back in Darby's.  Harbour very attractive by night, especially after rain (lots of it), with the lights reflected on the wet pavement.  As well as the electric cars – and the absence of places to park, for example in hotels – there are electric scooters everywhere – being used, or left all over the shop.

Still raining…

Stavanger 15.10.22

A famously good breakfast at Darby's in the splendid dining room upstairs.  A mirrored ceiling, lots of chinoiserie.  Turns out Mr Darby was in the oil industry – Singapore, Houston, London, Paris, Stavanger.  Awkward.  His Norwegian wife extolled the virtues of the Oil Museum, understandably, perhaps.

To the city, absolutely devoid of people – looked like a film set for some post-apocalyptic movie.  Around the old part, bought some lunch – having failed to do in the nearby Extra supermarket – seems Norwegians don't eat sandwiches…

Bought tickets for the only cruise to the fjords at this time of year – 650 Kr, reasonably, unlike the £100 Booking.com site was quoting for exactly the same trip.  Reminder to self: don't use Booking.com for offers… Now on the super-modern boat (catamaran).  Fair number of people, but far fewer than the 297 the boat can hold.  Rather fresh this morning, so sitting inside, not on the open top.  Views would be better there, but I think we'd freeze.  Strangely, not raining, even a hint of sun.  But rain promised later, and for all Sunday.

The endless parade of hills and mountains woven together, reminds me – perversely – of the train ride from Samarkand to Tashkent.  That sense of consonance among opposites. Almost impossible to stay outside – wind so strong, you'd lose a camera so easily.  The neat houses and cabins perched on patches of grass remind me this time of the buildings high in the Alps as we drove from Italy to France.  So many clearly expensive places owned by so many rich people, about which most of us know nothing…  The walls of the fjord vertical, with lines that make them look like perpendicular style architecture – truly natural cathedrals.

Half way into the fjord, to the waterfall, a majestic force of nature.  In close, with water spraying everywhere (not me, though – I stayed inside).  The boat turns, stops at Preikestolen.  I realise I have misjudged the height of these walls: on the Preikestolen itself I can just make out tiny, tiny dots – people.  The top is gobsmackingly high.  Then we stop at the Vagabond's Cave – basically a huge cleft in the cliff.  Beautiful rock formations, sculptural.

The bridge at the entrance to Lysefjord reminds me of the multiple bridges and viaducts on the road leading to the Mont Blanc tunnel – an amazing drive.  There, the mood was refulgent summer; here, mellow autumn.  Sailing back the way we came, but with a different feeling.  You depart full of expectations, energy.  You return full of experience, tired but content.  The rain held off for this, and we are grateful.

Another echo, but a distant one: when I went down other fjords, as far from here as possible, in New Zealand.  Slight smaller and tamer, as I recall, but beautiful nonetheless.

Another contrast.  Norway is confirmed for me as an efficient, functioning society, as I saw in Oslo all those years ago.  Its huge North Sea oil fund means that it is well placed for whatever the future holds.  The UK, of course, is the complete contrast to that, especially now.  A government so dysfunctional that is already a global byword; chaos politically, financially, economically, ecologically.  I love it.  "May you live in interesting times" may be meant as a curse, but for me is a blessing.  I love wondering what new disaster will unfold each day, hanging on Twitter so as to be among the first to know.  I love it – the buzz, the madness, the sense of living on the edge.  It's so exciting.  Stavanger, by contrast, opens at 10am and closes at 4pm.  Restaurants shut early, museums are closed on Mondays.  It's efficient, smooth – and rather dull.  Give me bonkers mayhem every time.

After the boat trip, a walk around the town, which is finally a little lively.  Then along to the bus station, which is also next to the train station.  The latter small, as might be expected.  We're here to buy buy tickets for tomorrow's visit to a slightly distant museum.  I buy a 24-hour ticket, not realising it is for the next 24 hours.  Ah, well, at least we can take the bus back.  Both stations sit next to the Byparken, Stavanger's main city park.  Seagulls and swans dominate its lake, which is striking pastoral given the presence of archetypal urban features such as bus and train stations.  Back to the room.  It starts raining heavily, but at least we had no rain during the fjord trip.

Out for supper to the nearby Matsmagasinet.  No room in the restaurant – it's Saturday evening after all – so we sit in the bar, and choose from its small but inventive menu.  Tables full of young women laughing raucously and explosively set the tone.  Just one man there, sitting on his own, absolutely immobile for minutes on end.  We eat, pay and leave to avoid any acts of mass murder he may be about to commit…

A day that went far better than feared, with most of it rainless.  Tomorrow still threatens to be thoroughly wet.  We shall see – the weather system here seems to be even more unstable and less predictable than London's…

16.10.22

In the café of the Archaeological Museum.  Bright and modern, very few people.  Exhibits well displayed, with explanations in Norwegian and English.  After a while, Norwegian becomes vaguely comprehensible, close enough to German.

Raining mostly today, but odd spells of dry weather – enough for us to take the bus to the Kunstmuseum by the park.  Typical small city art gallery: modern building, very clean and tidy, with a couple of temporary exhibitions, plus a few older Norwegian paintings – some very good landscapes.  Park largely empty, as everywhere.  Then on the bus to the Archaeological Museum.  Again, the space very modern, the exhibits well laid out.  Lots of gold and other jewellery, posts, a huge cauldron, broken swords, a section meditating on the universality of Yggdrasil, the tree of life.

But for me, the highlight without doubt was the pair of lurs – ancient Germanic horns.  These were found in a bog, and were intact.  Not only were there two of them, they were a matching pair: tuned to the same note, and each forming a serpentine coil with different chiralities.  Amazing sophistication, and also shows how important music was to ancient tribes.

After lunch in the museum, it was still early, so we walked along to the Stavanger Museum.  Full of kids, and kid-suitable exhibits, with one notable and striking exception.  A propos of nothing, one room contained an installation called "Cranium Music".  It consisted of a dozen or so suspended animal skulls onto which were projected the faces of singers such that the animal jaws coincided with the singers' mouths.  In the background, the music that the singers – and thus the skulls – were performing.  Pretty disconcerting, and hardly consonant with the rest of the museum.

There was still a little while before every museum in the city shut, so we decided to fit in one more – the Maritime Museum down by the harbour.  A nice old building, ceilings showing lovely beams, perilously low for me.  An eclectic mix of exhibitions, plus recreations of merchants' rooms.  Nothing spectacular, but interesting enough.

Just as museums close at 4pm, so are many restaurants shut on Sunday.  Even supermarkets are closed.  We managed to find one, Bunnpris, which a few bits and pieces we will eat tonight, since the forecasts are awful – not the weather for wanderings.

17.10.22

As the saying has it: "as quiet as Stavanger on a Monday" – well, almost.  All the museums are shut, bar one – the Oil Museum.  Pretty much the last thing I'd want to visit, but needs must when the devil drives.  And there is a certain timeliness in the topic, when a European war is being fought over, and waged with, oil.  The museum itself is rather splendid, architecturally speaking.  It looks as if made out of leftover oil pipes and rigs.  As usual, very clean and neat inside, with jolly exhibits about the origin of oil, the history of drilling.  One thing I already knew but still find amazing is that the modern oil industry is so young: it more or less began in Azerbaijan at the end of the nineteenth century, when people noticed that his black stuff bubbling out of the ground burnt rather well.  (Reminds me, I really want to go to Baku – I do wish Armenia and Azerbaijan would sort out a peace deal…). 

The exhibits have a certain abstract charm: the rigs looked like enormous metal artworks.  My favourite bit was the, er, bits – various kinds displayed in a row.  A photo showed them arranged like exotic sea animals, or viruses.  Also interesting was a control room of some kind, an ecstasy of analogue dials and switches.  But overall, like all museums in Stavanger, rather small – not worth the £25 it cost us to get in…  Then out around the barely stirring town, people going quietly about their quiet business, mostly in quiet electric vehicles, which seems appropriate as well as laudable.

Stavanger airport.  Like the museums here, modern, clean, efficient – and quite small.  Just three days ago, this city was completely unknown to me.  Now, I've seen the main sights and walked its streets in myriad ways.  Certainly, I don't claim to know the place, but I have an mental image and a plan of it.

More destinations:

1989 Oslo

1996 Helsinki, Tallinn

2014 Riga 

2019 Reykjavik

Moody's Black Notebook Travels